


Too Good to Be Good for Me

by itsallaboutzarry



Series: Make You Never Wanna Leave [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Bottom Zayn, Bubble Bath, Established Relationship, M/M, Shameless Smut, Slight Power Play, Top Harry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-15
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-06 23:25:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,325
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5434727
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsallaboutzarry/pseuds/itsallaboutzarry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Zayn takes a bath and Harry joins him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Good to Be Good for Me

**Author's Note:**

> The title is taken from Troye Sivan's song Too Good. And I wrote this listening to Beyonce's Rocket.
> 
> Don't know, don't owe. The words are mine.  
> That's it!

The bathroom smells of sandalwood and lavender. It’s all soft yellow light mixing with the purple scents that float around Zayn’s head like smoke, in a tangible orange and soft lilac.

The back of Zayn’s head is resting against the tub, face turned up and his eyes closed as he doesn’t pay attention to the gentle music he put on as the bath filled up. It’s Friday, late afternoon when Zayn got home from work and all he could see were the bubbles and the bath salts and the candles strewn all around him.

One of his hands is pressed softly against his stomach as the other is submerged next to his thigh. He didn’t want to go overboard with the water, but he couldn’t shut it off as he pictured himself lying there, water hot and the lights off – just him and the bathtub.

It’s not something Zayn does often – not nearly enough – but every time he steps into the water, his toes embracing the initial warmth, he promises to himself he’s going to draw a bath every week – more if he finds the time.

Zayn can feel as the tension from his shoulders melts into the water, his thoughts floating away with the foam gathered around the edges of the tub. His legs are stretched, his feet barely touching the other end of the porcelain and Zayn is sure he could fall asleep, could drift away until morning or the next day. He wishes he could just lie here for a week – never leave.

The lavender bath salts are supposed to be relaxing, anti-stress, calming for your nerves and nurturing for your lungs. Zayn wholeheartedly agrees. He barely has to breathe, doesn’t even feel the rise and fall of his chest, but Zayn’s not even thinking about that. His mind is weaving with the red and blue shades behind his eyelids, morphing into the sandalwood candles, into the water and the bubbles.

Just as Zayn eases deeper into the water, feels how it wraps around his chest like a blanket, he hears the front door open and close with a gentle click. There’s the signature tap of heels before it’s replaced by a soft pitter-patter of socked feet, getting closer and closer, louder with each step. Zayn thinks of the glass of water in the movie, the liquid thrumming with giant footsteps, and he imagines the water in the bathtub vibrating, in sync with each of Harry’s steps. He smiles at himself lazily, before he opens his eyes and cranes his neck the bare minimum amount to see the door over his shoulder.

It takes about five more seconds for the door to move, opening wide as Harry steps inside the bathroom with a smile on his face. “What do we have here?” he sing-songs as he leans against the sink and crosses his arms.

He must’ve taken the jacket of his suit off on his way to find Zayn, undid the first three buttons on his shirt to let his chest breathe. Zayn frowns, because he wanted to do that – free Harry from the layers of clothes, one by one, and lead him into the shower, massage his shoulders and kiss away the remnants of the week.

Zayn shifts his hands underwater, moves them to grip the edges of the tub as he shrugs, looks down. “Just wanted to have a bath.”

“Rough day at work?”

“I guess,” Zayn says and looks up, smiles as he leans his head back again. “Want to join me?”

Harry smirks, his eyes flashing, but he doesn’t make a move.

Zayn can see how Harry’s arms are tense, muscles flexing against his chest, against the fabric of his silk shirt. His legs are crossed at the ankles, thighs thick and strong – bitable, Zayn thinks. Harry’s charming, with his curls, his dimples and lopsided smile, eyes that invite you, that follow the shapes of your mouth as you speak. Harry’s charming with the way he makes you feel. It’s how he caught Zayn’s eye. But it was the allure of his lips, the way Harry’s always spoke with his long, nimble fingers, big hands and a very smart mouth. His strength, the power he could exude with a simple look – a look not unlike the one he’s throwing Zayn now – that made Zayn drop to his knees and beg – for anything, for everything.

With that smirk still hanging on his lips, Harry untangles his legs and steps forwards. His hands drop down to his sides and Zayn knows what that look is, can even see the thoughts tumbling in Harry’s head, if he wants to say no or would rather give this one up – give this to Zayn.

Another step forward and it’s decided, buttons of Harry’s shirt getting undone one by one, his fingers dragging against the silk. Zayn doesn’t get to see this often, is usually occupied, usually the one to slip Harry’s shirt off his shoulder, but he loves looking too. Zayn enjoys this view just as much.

Harry keeps a smile on his face and in his eyes, as he unzips his tight pants and shucks them off in his typical inelegant style, almost tripping with is feet caught in the fabric, but it’s hard to laugh when you know what’s coming. Down to his small boxers, Harry stands there for a second, trying to settle on something in his head as he frowns slightly, but Zayn decided for him as he moves to the other end of the tub. He leaves enough space behind his back for Harry to climb into.

And Harry does. He slips out of his boxers and tosses them to the side before he grabs the side of the tub and swings a leg over, settling down into the pleasantly warm water. His legs spread and move to Zayn’s side, bracketing around him as he slides backwards until his spine collides with Harry’s strong chest.

He felt content before, as he floated with the scents and the steam, losing his thoughts with the flick of the candle’s flames, but now, Zayn feels tethered to the Earth, grounded, tangible as he still melts, still floats above himself. He’s pressed up against Harry, his head resting on Harry’s shoulder as their fingers are intertwined, and this is what Zayn needs every Friday, every single day of his life.

Him and Harry have been together for years, have been through everything, over all the mountain peaks, tumbling down slopes and running through pastures, through those beautiful valleys, hand in hand, lips on lips. They’ve done it all and yet moments like this, when Harry’s lazily kissing the side of his neck and Zayn can rub his thumb over the back of Harry’s hand, is what makes him feel like home. Harry has always been home for Zayn.

They lie there together, sharing their warmth until the water starts to lose its appeal, its warmth, its relaxing scents and Harry’s head starts running again. Harry untangles their fingers and runs them up Zayn’s thighs, a languid motion Zayn knows not to enjoy too much, because it’s as fleeting as it makes him shiver. Harry shifts so that Zayn is half lying on top of him, legs spread and lips parted, waiting to hear Harry’s thoughts through his touch. Harry’s fingertips are gentle over Zayn’s skin, careful to not move too quickly, to not take too much time as they glide over his legs and onto his torso, one promising inch at a time.

As Harry purses his lips and presses them to Zayn’s neck, making a loud smack with his kiss, his fingers graze over Zayn’s nipples, fast and phantom. Zayn gasps and his toes twitch, and he almost asks for more. But Zayn doesn’t speak, because Harry knows what he’s doing, he knows exactly what Zayn wants and he’s just the person to give it to him.

He licks up Zayn’s neck as he circles his hands around Zayn’s chest, his nails catching on his skin, on Zayn’s breath. Harry knows what he wants when he pinches his nipples and Zayn moans. He knows what this is leading to when his right hand moves lower, sliding over Zayn’s torso until he grabs at the base of Zayn’s cock, as quick as that, no second guessing. And Harry certainly knows where this is going when he doesn’t ease his grip, nor move his hand.

Zayn wants to scream. They haven’t gotten out of the bathtub and he already wants to scream. But Zayn wouldn’t know what to scream for – Harry’s mouth licking over his neck and leaving behind bruises that Zayn will trace tomorrow morning or Harry’s hands, so fucking smart and cruel and big that Zayn has to close his eyes so that he doesn’t cry out for mercy, for more.

It’s in the way Harry’s hands twitch that Zayn knows to stand up and get out of the bath. They don’t grab the towels or dry themselves off, don’t blow out the candles or turn off the music Zayn doesn’t even recognize as they make their way to the bed.

Harry’s hands have left Zayn’s skin and there’s nothing more in that moment that Zayn wants more than to get them back, scratching and clawing and comforting later, when he’s trying to catch his breath. He walks in front of Harry, mindful of him standing right behind his back before he drops down to his knees and clasps his hands on his knees. Zayn knows he wasn’t asked to do this, but he wants to, he needs to do this.

Zayn’s thankful he doesn’t have to wait, though, for Harry to make up his mind or decide if this is what _he_ wants from Zayn. Because apparently, as he comes to stand in front of Zayn with a gentle smile, it’s exactly what he wants from Zayn.

They don’t speak, Zayn doesn’t beg and Harry doesn’t need to instruct him to open his mouth, because it’s hanging open before Harry can even get a hand around himself. It’s not something they do often, their little power-plays that they probably enjoy a little too much. Mostly it’s just once a month, when Zayn’s stumbling in his heels as he tries to keep up with Harry, do everything exactly as he’s told. But sometimes, when Zayn’s relaxed and Harry’s in the mood – and Harry’s always in the mood – it’s good to be encouraged, Zayn thinks. Harry’s praises have always sent shivers up his spine, but it’s that much more powerful and heartfelt when they’re deserved, when it’s not just something you say in passing, because you feel like you have to speak or you’ll explode.

“No hands,” Harry whispers, and Zayn immediately shifts so he can sit on them and remove all temptation. This is good, this is what he needs – this is probably what he wanted as he waited for the bath to fill up. Harry takes a step forward and he’s right in front of Zayn’s lips, his leaking tip almost close enough for Zayn to taste.

“You want it?” Harry teases, but Zayn doesn’t react. He keeps his eyes opened and focused, waits for the sign to lean in and lick and take take take until he can’t breathe anymore. It’s something Zayn wouldn’t see years ago or if it was anyone else but Harry, yet when he sees Harry’s fingers twitch against his shaft he dives in, eyes open and tongue hanging past his lips.

Harry’s thick, long, the head of his cock grazing at the back of Zayn’s throat and all Zayn wants is more. He licks at the tip, sucks it in his mouth and groans, eyes rolling around in his head as he sinks lower, breathing through his nose. Harry tastes salty, bitter maybe and sweet, so sweet from all the fruit he pushes Zayn to eat too.

It’s fun, it’s freeing, it’s amazing and there’s nothing that makes Zayn feel quite as powerful as the look on Harry’s face as he flicks his eyes up. Harry’s lips are parted, a moan hanging half way out of his mouth and his eyes are crazed, pupils blown and unblinking like he wouldn’t dare miss any second of this. His legs are spread wide, but Zayn can see how they shake, how Harry’s whole body trembles as he sucks him down until his nose is pressed against neatly trimmed hair.

Zayn twits his tongue, laps around the head of Harry’s cock, hollows his cheeks, and almost falls forward when Harry grabs his hair. It’s painful, Zayn can feel his eyes watering as Harry doesn’t let go, but that’s not what Zayn wants. Zayn would stay like this, on his knees and his mouth full if Harry would let him, if grabbing Zayn’s hair wasn’t a sign of how close Harry is to falling forward as well.

“Zayn,” Harry drawls as he pushes his hips forward once, twice, three times, before he eases out and pulls Zayn up by his hair. “God, you’re so good.”

It’s Zayn’s first kiss from Harry today, first that’s more than a small peck, a little graze of their lips before Harry leaves in the morning and Zayn waits for him to get back. It’s dirty, Harry’s tongue smart and filthy, grazing the roof of Zayn’s mouth as he tastes himself, whimpers when Zayn presses their bodies flush together.

“Want to watch?” Zayn hums against Harry’s lips as he walks them to the bed, pushing Harry and rolling on top of him, settling on his hips. “Wanna watch me?”

“Mmm.” Harry’s hands smooth over Zayn’s thighs and come to rest on his hips in a gentle embrace of his fingers – so soft and so gentle that Zayn almost comes right then. Zayn bends over backwards and tries not to fall off the bed as he reaches for the lube in Harry’s nightstand, but Harry’s there, his hands strong now, a safety net for Zayn’s every move.

Zayn drips a fair amount of lube on his fingers, warming it before he reaches his hand behind himself, presses a finger against crack and slides the finger down, teasing himself. And Harry watches him, keeps his eyes on Zayn’s face and half mimics his expressions – almost closed eyes, parted lips, pouting when he can’t quite reach – as Zayn presses the tip of his index against his rim and eases it in, going as deep as he can.

He’s up to three fingers, all just that sliver too short when he’s moaning, desperate for _something_ else, for more, for Harry’s hands at his nipples or in his mouth or on his aching cock. Zayn wants more and he’s writhing with it, his arm twisted awkwardly and half numb with the angle, but he doesn’t give up, scissoring his fingers and sighing in content, the burn of it flushing his skin with crimson.

“Touch me?” Zayn pleads, his voice broken. “Please, touch me?”

“No.” It’s firm, clear, a certain power behind Harry’s word that Zayn didn’t expect to hear. He moans out a cry as he presses his fingers in deeper, needing more. “I want to watch you,” Harry says as his hands stay on Zayn’s hips, his thumb running useless circles onto his skin. “I just want to watch you.”

“Please Harry,” Zayn begs, far from being embarrassed by how needy his voice sounds, like he’s starving for it, craving it. “Please.”

Harry blinks, licking over his lips as his grip gets tighter, and he lifts Zayn up just as his back arches in anticipation. Zayn withdraws his fingers and braces himself on Harry’s chest, not exactly clear with what’s happening but also not in the headspace to care, as long as he gets what he wants.

Zayn can feel the tip of Harry’s cock at his rim, barely grazing over it like a taunt, like a threat and a promise wrapped into one that Zayn wants to tear up with his teeth. He’d do anything. Zayn would beg – is begging – would crawl on his knees, would come on command if it meant he could ease his weight down and close his eyes, breathe out deeply with satisfaction.

“You’re so good, Zayn,” Harry whispers, his voice nothing more than a murmur as Zayn stares at him, his eyes glued on Harry’s as he licks his lips again, the pink curve of his bottom lip tempting. And Zayn’s not strong, not now, not with the promise still teasing him, so he bends down and kisses Harry, licks into his mouth. “You’re too good.”

For a second, Zayn wonders what it means, but his head gets clouded in the next, a storm erupting somewhere deep in his chest as Harry pushes his hips up and eases the head of his cock into Zayn. He does scream then, as he lets go and Harry lowers him down until he’s completely seated on his hips, fingers trembling and thighs aching already. Zayn breathes out, sighs almost and wants to laugh.

There’s the aching burn that Zayn loves, that ignites him like nothing else and pushes him forward until he’s rocking on Harry’s lap. His hips make gentle eights, moving round and round until Harry’s the one begging with his eyes, telling Zayn to move.

This is easy. This is what they’re good at, tearing each other apart and crumbling underneath the pleasure, holding on and slowing down. Zayn whimpers when Harry thrusts his hips up once, twice and he hits Zayn’s spot every single time, like it’s a target, like it’s all Harry’s wanted from the moment he saw Zayn stretching and spread out in their bathtub.

Zayn’s breathing is ragged and Harry’s lips are parted in a silent ‘o’. Zayn’s going to have finger shaped bruises on his hips in the morning, but he revels in the thought, of how tight Harry’s grip is as he bounces on his cock even if his thighs are burning. Harry pushes up and Zayn sinks down, up and down, thrust after thrust and Zayn can’t keep his eyes open, can’t bear to hold on any longer.

“Harry, Harry,” Zayn says, the only thing he can say, the only word programmed in his brain as he doesn't stop moving, can’t stop moving for how good he feels like this, his hand in his hair and back arched, reached for the sky. “Touch me, Harry– ”

Zayn feels Harry’s grip before he even registers his own words, whimpering at this slick, tight hand. “Come on Zayn,” Harry says as encouragement, his voice barely able to float to Zayn’s ears as he gets lost – as they both lose themselves.

Harry’s hand is sloppy, no rhythm to it as his hips stutter, falter in their undulations and Zayn collapses against his chest. He touches the sky and wraps himself around a cloud as he comes, hot all over Harry’s fist and stomach, breathing hot against his neck. He can feel Harry push against him too, how he tenses and his legs stiffen, his hips rushing to a stop as he crashes down and comes too, pulses inside Zayn in slow and thick spurts until they’re both spent and barely breathing.

Zayn thinks he should mind, as he lays there, mouth pressed against Harry’s hot skin. He should definitely mind that he just took a bath and he’s dirty all over again, sweaty and reeking of Harry. But Zayn really doesn’t. He doesn’t care that he’d going to need a shower before he can fall asleep. Zayn actually likes that he smells of Harry and that Harry smells of him. He doesn’t mind the taste of sweat against his lips as he kisses at Harry’s neck and below his sharp jaw and at his cheek and temple and finally on his lips, Harry kissing him back.

Any excuse to take a shower with Harry is good enough for Zayn.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! And come talk to me on my [tumblr](http://www.itwasallaboutzarry.tumblr.com/).


End file.
